


Lightbringer

by could-have-beens (uncorrectgrammar)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Ginny Weasley, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, Dubious Morality, F/M, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Moral Ambiguity, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncorrectgrammar/pseuds/could-have-beens
Summary: "What would you do for me, if I asked?""Anything. Everything. Just say my name and I'll follow you anywhere."What a gift it was, to own another person's soul.Ginny Weasley is lost in time — with only one constant to root her to reality. Caught in the throes of magic, she wanders in and out of the life of Tom Riddle.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 26
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

_"Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell."_

— William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

_"People who cease to believe in God or goodness altogether still believe in the devil. . . .  
Evil is always possible. And goodness is eternally difficult."_

_—_ Anne Rice, _Interview with the Vampire_

* * *

It took a long, long time to fall, long enough for her to observe with a strange, detached interest the way the curse spread inch by inch across her chest, and how her heart thumped hard against her ribs in rebellion. There were swirling lights behind her eyelids, and cold creeping into her bones, and sharp, invisible claws pulling her in all directions. Then there was the impact that forced her breath out with a gasp, and the realization that she had finally stopped falling, that she could feel something solid beneath her.

She had only a moment to revel in her relief when sounds meandered in, voices growing louder, pushing closer, crowding her until the pain became a dull throbbing in the background.

“— fell out of the sky!”

“But that’s impossible! You can’t Apparate in Hogwarts!”

“My dinner!”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried —”

“Oh my God, she’s _bleeding_! Someone get the matron —”

She opened her eyes. Black spots danced in her vision, and she found faces she didn’t recognize peering down at her. Above them, the black sky was dotted with stars and —

Candles.

Floating candles.

 _Wrong_.

Her hand flew to the locket around her neck. It had been burning before, but now she could feel the metal cooling against her palm. The weight of it was strange and unfamiliar, the heaviness pressing down on her chest as if a reminder — a warning.

She heaved herself to her feet, her legs wobbling unsteadily beneath her. As she stood, a sea of black robes and curious faces parted before her, and her eyes landed on a figure across the hall.

She had heard it said that time could slow down, and maybe that was true. That dreadful day in the Chamber of Secrets, the sight of Hagrid carrying Harry’s lifeless body, the expression on her mother’s face when she fell. . . . Those moments lasted longer than they should have, reality stretched thin with dread and horror.

But this? Seeing that familiar face, pale and wide-eyed, still as a statue amid the chaos — this was the opposite.

Everything sped up.

The noise of the crowd rose in a crescendo around her, a hundred voices clamouring to be heard, and Tom Riddle’s silence rang louder than it all.

 _I can end this_ , she thought. _Here and now, I can end it before it even begins_.

Ginny Weasley raised her wand.

Tom Riddle first met her on a cold, drizzly evening at a bus stop.

Winter was looming near, and the biting winds threatened to topple him over as he waited for the rain to subside. Across the street from where Tom stood, there was a girl his age, crouched low upon a store stoop with her parents. The couple was gazing down at their daughter with such concentrated love and warmth that it was like looking at the sun, the three of them glowing with happiness. Tom had passed them not even five minutes ago, before the rain had fallen, but they had been too caught up in each other to notice him.

But why would they? It was a simple truth that Tom was easy to overlook. Easy to ignore. Easy to dismiss. It meant he could sneak out of the orphanage whenever he wanted, and he spent a lot of time travelling around London. Amid the dull rumble of the city, he could move out of the way and stay unseen, with his hands darting in and out, always in fleeting touches. Whenever he returned, his pockets would be bulging with trinkets — useful things like a pocketknife and a ball of string, and always something wrong but interesting, like pictures from a man’s wallet or a bracelet from a woman’s wrist.

On days Tom felt especially daring, he went up to grownups on the street and asked them for bus money. Usually they just mumbled half-hearted apologies and patted their pockets helplessly, but lately they did what he asked of them, without asking too many awkward questions. More out of a desire to be rid of him, he knew, than true altruism. He was an undesirable element in their comfortable lives, a reminder of how grim the world was outside their warm houses, and he was starting to learn how to use it to his advantage.

There was another gust of wind, and Tom nearly staggered, knocked out of his reverie. In the same howling blast, he saw from the corner of his eye someone heading towards the bus stop, towards him.

Another girl, older than him but not enough to be an adult. Her red hair was vibrant against the dull greys above and below and all around them, flying like a banner in the wind. She was dressed in what looked like a long, flowing dress — or something like a coat or a robe — and it looked remarkably dry.

Tom cut his eyes away, back to the family across the street. They were huddled under an umbrella now, darting down the pavement. It looked like they were laughing, but the sound was lost in the now pelting rain. A pang of envy pierced through him, sharp and cold.

That morning, Danny Watson had been adopted. _Him_ , that simpering, thin-skinned boy — he had been chosen over Tom, and soon he would know what it was like to be in that girl’s shoes. There had been a part of Tom, in the days leading up to Danny’s adoption, that had thought . . .

Well. It had been Tom’s own fault, really, for having hoped. How could he have thought it would be him? Hadn’t he been through this before? This sore disappointment ringing through his bones was a familiar feeling, brought on by years of repetition. A reminder that he was nothing to yet another pair of prospective parents, that he was nothing to his own parents, that he was nothing to everyone.

 _Except to me_ , Tom thought. He was something to himself, and he had to believe it was true. It was easy, after all, to get lost in the vastness of the world, and so he had to believe he could break away from the anonymity.

When the family was out of sight, Tom became more acutely aware of the girl next to him. She was staring at him, and somehow he was certain she had been staring since she had ducked under the roof.

“I seem to be holding your interest, Miss,” said Tom, lifting his chin defiantly.

He had wanted to make her uncomfortable, but rather than squirm or look away, the girl arched her brows, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know,” she said in gently chiding tones. “Stealing isn’t very nice. How would you feel if someone stole from you?”

Tom frowned, not a little bewildered. Of course he knew it wasn’t nice — that was the point. It was his way of tipping the scales, of balancing injustices.

But how did she know? Surely she couldn’t know. . . .

“But I wouldn’t worry about it now,” the girl continued. “The wallet’s back where it belongs.”

Suddenly wary, Tom’s hands flew to his pockets. They were empty, he realized _._

“Where did you — ?”

“Back in the lady’s purse, where it should be. Like I said.”

The girl’s expression didn’t change, but Tom could have sworn she looked faintly amused. His eyes narrowed.

“How?” he demanded.

She wriggled her fingers, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Magic.”

Tom stiffened. She was laughing at him, he was sure of it, and yet . . .

There had been no one else on the street when he had stolen from the family. He was careful about that — he always timed it so that no one would catch him in the act, and he always picked those he was sure wouldn’t notice the little boy in shabby clothes.

And Tom was certain the couple hadn’t noticed him; they had been too engrossed in their daughter to pay him any mind.

So how did this girl know? For that matter, how did she swipe the wallet from him then return it to the family, when she hadn’t moved this entire time?

“Come along then,” the girl said, holding out her hand. “I’ll buy you some ice cream, if you like, but you have to promise not to do it again.”

Tom blinked at her outstretched hand. A beat passed, then two. The sound of rain hammering overhead seemed deafening in the silence.

“You don’t know me yet, do you?” she said after a while.

Before he could think to ask what she meant, the girl was crouching down, his face slightly above hers. She was smiling, wide and bright, and this close to her, Tom could see her eyes were a warm brown.

“My name’s Ginny, by the way,” she whispered, low and quiet, like a secret. “And I meant it about the ice cream.”

“It’s raining,” said Tom at great length.

“Hmm, that it is.”

She stood and then — Tom couldn’t say how it happened. One second, her hands were empty, and the next, she was holding an umbrella, opening it, and swinging it over her shoulder.

 _Magic_ , she had said. Questions buzzed and swarmed in Tom’s head, each wrestling for importance, and he couldn’t find any kind of thought that would settle them all.

“Right then,” she said lightly. “What about hot chocolate? Extra marshmallows and all.”

She held out her hand again, and this time Tom took it.

“I’m Tom,” he said at last. “Tom Riddle,” he added, almost impulsively. It was important that the world knew that he did, indeed, have a surname, otherwise he would just be another Tom.

“Nice to meet you, Tom Riddle,” said Ginny, smiling still. “I think you and I are going to be great friends.”

* * *

Ginny was a storyteller. In a quiet, secluded corner of a shabby café, over mugs of hot chocolate and a shared plate of toffee pudding, she regaled him with stories, each one more fantastic than the last.

A world of magic, of wizards and witches and all manner of creatures, hidden from those without.

A brewing war, just like the Great War, but with wandfire and rituals and forbidden magic.

A school, a sprawling castle brimming with light and enchantment. Waiting for him, for Tom. _Hogwarts._

Tom believed her. Inexplicably, he knew she was telling him the truth. It made sense now, why he never fit, why he had always been different. He had never belonged in this world at all — he belonged elsewhere, somewhere different, somewhere better.

“And you’ll be there too, won’t you?” said Tom. “You’re magic too!”

Ginny hesitated. “I’ll be there, but I’m . . . I’m a special case, let’s say.”

Tom’s excitement — and he was excited, more than he could remember being in a long while — dimmed, just a little. “What do you mean?”

“It means you have to . . . you have to be good, all right? You have to promise you’ll be good. Because you’ll see me again, but you’ll have to wait —”

“You’re leaving?” said Tom, sitting up quickly. Panic gripped him so suddenly that it felt as if someone poured ice water down his back. “You’re not staying?”

“I can’t,” said Ginny with a small apologetic smile. “Not right now, but one day.”

The joy and eagerness he had felt while listening to her stories were gone in an instant, replaced by a cold dread that filled the familiar hollowness within him. It only grew as they made their way back to the orphanage, like black tendrils spreading and twisting into every part of him, until the lightness and contentment from before felt like a distant memory.

Tom hated going back, it was always the worst part of his trips around London — but now it felt even worse. It didn’t seem fair, it didn’t seem right, that he should have to return after knowing the truth of what he was, after all of Ginny’s stories, after learning about the world that awaited him.

“Where will you go?” asked Tom when they arrived, standing outside the backdoor of the orphanage.

It was still raining, and Ginny was idly twirling the umbrella in her hand. Her other hand was gripping Tom’s own, and he had the sudden wild, childish notion that she might not leave if he held onto her tighter. It wouldn’t work, of course, but a part of him still wondered if he could convince her to stay with him — the same way he could convince strangers on the street to give him money without outright begging.

“Hard to say,” said Ginny, shrugging. “I can never tell where I end up.”

“That’s not a proper answer.”

“Ask me a proper question and maybe I’ll give you one.”

Tom scowled. It felt like he was missing the first half of a joke — one that he should already know, from the way Ginny was trying to stifle her laughter — and he was frustrated at not being able to determine what it was.

“You’ll see me again,” she promised. “Not tomorrow, I don’t think, but I’ll come back.”

“People always say that,” grumbled Tom.

“I’m not people.”

Suddenly he heard the shuffling of people from inside the building, lumbering down the stairs and along the hall.

“Tom?” It was one of the caretakers, stomping towards the door. “That better be you, young man! How many times do we have to tell you — no wandering off!”

There was a rattling of keys, and the doorknob turned with the faintest of clicks. Clockwise, anticlockwise, up — and just as the treacherous door fell open, Tom turned around.

Ginny was gone, as if she had never been there at all.

* * *

The thick fir tree behind the orphanage was one of Tom’s favourite hiding places. No one had ever found him up there, tucked away in the branches, though he doubted anyone bothered to look very hard, if at all.

Tom climbed rhythmically, his breathing settling in time with his hands and feet. In the distance, he could hear the muffled voices of the orphanage staff, but he took his time, concentrating as he scrambled up. He kept going until the branches were so fragile that the next one up snapped off his hand. Forced to accept that he was as close to the top as he was going to get, he shinned along the branch until he could see out of the conifer.

Here among the thick pine needles and the smell of sap, all he could hear was the rustling of leaves, cut off from the muted buzz of the city. The tough climb, the bitterly cold air — it was all worth it, just for this moment of quiet and solitude. Like entering another world . . .

“What did I say?” came an irritated voice from somewhere above him. Tom looked up, and just about managed to keep his grip on the tree in shock.

It was Ginny, looking back at him with a fierce frown. Her hair was unruly and stuck up all over the place, but it was undoubtedly her, exactly as she had been when he last saw her. The same dark clothes, the same golden locket.

“What did I tell you? Be good, I said. I very distinctly remember telling you to be good.”

Tom swallowed. His voice seemed to have deserted him, and it was hard to remember all he wanted to tell her, all the words he had carefully constructed in his head, on the nights he had laid awake, wondering if the day by the bus stop had been more than a figment.

“You’re here,” said Tom finally, in a low voice. “You’re real.”

Her expression softened, and she climbed down until she was sitting beside him.

“Of course I’m real,” said Ginny gently. She held out her hand, and Tom reached out, twining his fingers with hers. “See? Feels real enough, doesn’t it?”

It did. It must be.

Tom nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on their entwined hands. “You were gone.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise it won’t happen again.”

“Where did you go?”

“You’ll find out when you’re older.” She laughed at Tom’s scowl and let go of his hand. “There’s no need to pull that face at me. You’re going to know eventually.”

“Why do you do that?” he said, his voice growing stronger.

“Do what?”

“Keep secrets, not tell me things . . . act mysterious.”

“I’ve got to keep you on your toes,” she said in a ridiculous singsong. “I know how you get when you’re bored, and you get bored easy.”

“Not of you.” And he meant it. He couldn’t imagine ever getting bored of Ginny and her stories.

But she only rolled her eyes. “Ever the charmer. Don’t think that means I’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said coolly. He fought not to recoil at her disapproving look.

“I know you fought with Billy Stubbs yesterday,” she said sternly. “That poor rabbit . . .”

Tom wanted to deny it. Had they been on the ground, he would have leapt to his feet in protest. No one had caught him in the act, and even though Mrs. Cole and the staff were looking for him now, they had no way of proving he had done it. They never did.

But he knew at once it would be daft to lie to Ginny. She wasn’t like the caretakers or the other children in the orphanage — she was special, just as he was, and he had the disturbing sense that she knew what he was thinking. That she would see through his practiced aloofness, no matter what he said.

“He started it,” said Tom, looking away. “He called me names! He said I was —”

“That doesn’t make it right. This isn’t what magic is for, Tom. You shouldn’t have done it.”

“What would you have done then?”

There was a pause, long enough that Tom worried she had vanished — but no. Ginny was still seated next to him, her arms almost brushing his, her cheeks strangely pink.

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out. “I would have punched him, probably, but you shouldn’t do that either.”

“Then what —”

Before he could finish, Ginny jumped down from the tree. It was far too high a jump, one that should have hurt her, but she landed as lightly as if she had simply hopped down a front step. She must have known Tom was watching in amazement because she turned back and grinned, clearly showing off. He almost called down to ask how she had done it, but she quickly sobered, her hands on her hips.

“I won’t teach you anymore if all you’re going to do is pick fights and steal things,” she said, glaring.

A retort was on the tip of his tongue when her words sank in. “You’re going to teach me?”

Her brows drew together, a series of emotions flickering across her face — confusion and surprise, then something like anger, something like dismay, before she slid them all behind an expressionless shutter.

“Come on down,” she said. “I’m still mad, but since I’m here anyway. . . . I suppose we might as well.”

Tom climbed down as quickly as he could, not heeding the twigs scratching his arms and face.

“You’re really going to teach me?” he said, fast and breathless, once he was on the ground. “Real magic? With wands and —”

He stopped, mouth snapping shut, as he caught sight of Ginny’s pursed lips. In his excitement, he had almost forgotten why he was here — why he had sought this refuge, why he was hiding away — in the first place.

“Just —” She gave him a once over, as if sizing him up, then sighed. “Just promise you won’t do it again.”

Tom nodded immediately, trying to keep his anticipation in check. He had heard the note of her throat tightening; Ginny was upset, and somehow he knew it had not nothing to do with Billy Stubbs’ rabbit.

Then she shook her head, the corner of her mouth curving into a smile, and the sight of it burned away his unease.

“Come along, Riddle,” she said airily, with a fondness shining through the words — a fondness for _him_.

Tom followed her without hesitation.

* * *

There was no way of telling when Ginny would come back. She wandered in and out, the only guarantee of her return the promise she repeated, without fail, at the end of her visits: _you’ll see me again_.

And Tom did.

Every day, he waited by the front gates or lingered by the windows overlooking the gardens, searching for her now familiar silhouette. Hardly anyone ever passed through, and he knew this addition to his routine confused the caretakers. He could feel their eyes on his back each time, but he wasn’t the first or the only orphan to sit by the gates, waiting and looking for a visitor — for _any_ visitor, to whisk him away from this awful place.

But unlike most, Tom wasn’t waiting for naught. Sometimes there would be days between her visits, sometimes weeks and even months, but Ginny always came back, the same as she ever was, with stories of Hogwarts he was sure he would never tire of.

“Put your pen down,” she had said the first time she had taught him magic, laughing at whatever she had seen on Tom’s face. “This isn’t that kind of lesson.”

It hadn’t been, and neither were all the ones that followed. They were nothing like his normal schoolwork. Rather than teach him about things like numbers and history, Ginny taught him about spells and potions and seemingly innocuous things, like Quidditch teams and how to find the kitchens in Hogwarts. Always, she reminded him to ignore the people she called Slytherins, and to not pay attention to what they believed about blood and status.

“Names have power, I’ll give them that,” she said. “But it’s not from how pure your blood is or how much money you’ve got. They’re just labels. The only power they have is the meaning you give them, and we’ll all be happier if you give them nothing at all.”

The strangest thing was how Ginny wouldn’t let him do any actual magic. She insisted her wand wouldn’t work for him, and so Tom had to settle for her demonstrations or practicing the spell on his own. The first time he had done it, he had turned a match into a needle, and she had looked at him with an odd expression. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual beaming smile.

“I’m not doing this right,” she muttered later, more to herself than to him. “My — I know someone, who’s a much better teacher.”

Tom doubted it. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could be better than Ginny at anything. She did everything with ease, conjuring lights and stories out of thin air without any effort at all.

Once, he asked her about this supposedly better teacher, the unfinished _my_ — _someone_ that she carried with her and loomed over every lesson. To his surprise, her smile faded, and her face drained of colour until her freckles stood out like ink splatter.

“No one you should know,” she snapped, her face blank and impassable. He later caught her frowning when she thought he wasn’t looking, clutching her necklace so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Ginny had looked sad then, in a way she never was. It was the same look new children in the orphanage wore, when they still foolishly hoped for a saviour that would never come, for some distant relative to appear and tell them they had a family all along.

Unable to help himself, Tom asked her about that too. There was a second’s delay when Ginny didn’t seem to be responding, not even breathing, but then she shot to her feet and stared at him, a shadow clouding her face. He was irrepressibly reminded of Mrs. Cole when she lost her temper, of those furious reprimands that had never bothered him.

But it was different with Ginny. Tom shrank back, even as indignation rose in his throat, even as he held her gaze. It was different, because he could _feel_ it — the weight of her magic, the brightness of it, thrumming in the air between them.

She was angry and trying to contain it, and he found himself oddly captivated. The knowledge that she could do anything, that she had the power simmering under her skin, made him freeze where he stood, waiting for what she would say and do with bated breath.

In the end, Ginny merely said, in the same harsh tone, “They’re gone now.”

Tom frowned when she didn’t offer anything else. He clasped his hands behind his back and blinked innocently up at her. “You’ve got a funny way of missing people.”

Ginny pinned him with a burning glare, and he could tell she wasn’t fooled. “I guess I do.”

Though she eventually changed the subject, the conversation hung like a pall over their heads for the rest of the day. It was almost disappointing, how anticlimactic it was.

But Tom didn’t forget. He sometimes wondered if he ought to try asking again, about her family and her mystery someone. How far could he push, before she snapped back? How many times could he ask the same questions, before he would get his answers?

Or would she simply not give them? How far would she go to keep her secrets, to keep him waiting?

Would she leave for good, to do just that?

Curious as he was, Tom couldn’t risk it. He would be patient, he decided, if it meant Ginny would return.

Most of the time, they stayed at the edge of the garden, hidden among the trees and far from the wandering eyes of the staff and the other children. When it got too dark, they would go up to the roof of the building, careful not to let anyone see them come and go. Ginny seemed to know his hiding places as well as he did; there were times when she found him taking his secret passageways, when he was trying to avoid the dull, irritating presence of the children in the orphanage with him.

Some days, she appeared to him when he was out in the city, and often she would take him to the same café from that first day. One summer afternoon, she brought him to the duck pond in St. James’ Park, insisting he ought to enjoy the rare burst of fair weather.

“Why don’t we ever go to Diagon Alley?” said Tom, watching the ducks glide past.

Ginny shrugged and tossed scraps of bread to a scruffy-looking drake. “Because it’s a surprise. You’ll get bored of it, after a while.”

No matter where she took him, it was these visits that Tom liked best, though it meant she couldn’t show him any magic. Wandering the streets of London with Ginny by his side made these unsanctioned trips feel even more like an adventure. It was as if the world was bigger now, brighter and stranger in ways he never thought possible. It felt more real, too, when they were weaving through crowds and brushing against strangers. Proof that _she_ was real, that she wasn’t made up, despite what Billy Stubbs and the others whispered behind his back.

Yet it was also these visits Tom dreaded most, for how quickly the hours passed. The sun was sinking fast, and as he and Ginny gazed upon it, it sunk below the horizon and disappeared.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” he asked as they neared the orphanage. 

“Of course,” she said, and again he had the fleeting thought of asking her to stay.

Instead, in the most grave and solemn tone he could muster, he said, “Don’t forget me.”

Ginny laughed, letting go of his hand so she could ruffle his hair.

“Never,” she said as Tom, scowling, wriggled free. “I don’t know how I could ever forget you.”

Maybe it was because of his own gloom, but he thought there was something in the way she said it, something in her words that belied her smile. Tom didn’t have very long to ponder what it was before Ginny ushered him through the door, with her usual reminders to _be good_ and _be patient, all right, you’ll see me soon_.

A thick fog had settled over the grounds like a cold veil. Tom vaguely wondered how it could have descended so quickly as Ginny waved goodbye and disappeared through the mist.

And just like that, the world seemed dimmer. Smaller, as if it had shrunk down to this grim building and its empty courtyard. Tom went to his room, looked out the window — the fog had lifted now, though the garden seemed blurred and shadowy still — and he waited, counting down the days until her return.

* * *

“ _Expecto_ _patronum_!”

A silver horse shot out of her wand and galloped soundlessly through the trees. Tom watched, filled with wonder, as it seemed to drown out the sunlight, basking the garden in its glow like it was the only light in the world.

Just what sort of things could one do with magic?

 _Everything_ , he thought. The possibilities seemed limitless, almost overwhelmingly so. More than making things move and hurt, more than talking to snakes, more than commanding animals to do what he wanted, there was also _this_ — this dazzlingly bright creature, and all the other bright things Ginny had shown him.

As captivating as it was, though, it didn’t hold Tom’s attention very long. His gaze drifted back to Ginny, who was still watching the horse bound across the grounds with a pensive look.

“You went away again,” he said.

She turned to him slowly, as if roused from a stupor, and didn’t answer right away. “Was I gone for very long?”

 _The longest_ , Tom didn’t say. _Almost a year, this time_.

Hope was a terrible, stupid thing to indulge in within the walls of Wool’s Orphanage. He had learned that years ago, but he still felt the strain of it, pressing and pulling at him, each time she disappeared into the night, the same promise echoing in his mind.

“Will you tell me now, where you went?” he asked instead.

Ginny shook her head. “Not yet. You’re too young.”

Tom was sorely tempted to stomp his foot, if it wouldn’t completely prove her point.

“You’re not much older,” he protested. The horse was trotting towards them, leaving a trail of silver light in its wake, when a thought occurred to him. “How old are you anyway?”

Ginny looked about the same age as the oldest children in the orphanage. But then she had always looked the same to him, an unchanging constant.

“Older,” she said calmly as the horse stood next to her. Cast in its silvery glow, her golden necklace glinted as the horse gently nudged her shoulder with its muzzle. “Rather rude of you, Tom, asking a lady her age.”

Tom made a face. He was about to retort when he realized she was trying to distract him, so he changed tack.

“Why can’t you stay? Last time, you said you can’t stay anywhere. That it wasn’t allowed.”

A frown creased her forehead. “Did I? Well, it’s not wrong, really, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s not that it isn’t allowed. It’s more like . . . there are guidelines, you could say. Even magic has rules that need to be followed. They’re not the sort of thing you could break — bend a little, maybe, but not break. Not even if I wanted to.”

“Do you want to?”

She looked away and let out a long sigh. “You ask an awful lot of questions.”

“You never tell me anything,” he couldn’t help but say, his tone rising.

“I tell you plenty. You just never listen.”

“I do too!”

Tom didn’t realize he was whinging until Ginny levelled a cool gaze in his direction. The horse beside her had dissolved into nothingness, returning them to the dim afternoon light.

“But you haven’t learned anything,” she said. She was staring at him like she was trying to summon the energy to be angry and not finding it.

Tom felt a squirming mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He had learned _plenty_ , hadn’t he? He could do the spells she had taught him without needing a wand, and he had memorized all the incantations, remembered all her stories. . . .

And yet, that odd look sometimes flickered across her face. Almost like she was wary, like Mrs. Cole and everyone else — but that didn’t make sense. Why would Ginny be wary of him, when it was she who could do all these wonderful things?

They regarded each other silently for a moment before Tom, unable to come up with anything else, settled on appeasement.

“Can you show me again?”

The silver horse burst from her wand once more, soaring across the garden. All the while, it seemed to be looking at Tom, its head held high and its eyes watchful and vigilant.

* * *

Tom didn’t know what had woken him. Nothing usually disturbed his sleep. He was used to the nocturnal sounds of the city — a car going by outside, an animal noise in the night, the voices of the wind in the trees — but tonight something was different. His neck prickled uncomfortably, and he squinted into the darkness of his bedroom, unable to shake the feeling that something was lurking around the corner. He propped himself up on his elbow, fully awake now, straining to hear.

There it was, outside the window. He got up and opened it wide, leaning his head out and staring at the empty garden.

Only it wasn’t empty. Even from a distance, he could see a figure curled under the fir tree, a small glow illuminating a familiar mane of red hair.

Tom didn’t even think about it; he was out of his room and racing to the garden in a heartbeat. It was only when he was outside that he realized something was wrong.

Ginny was _crying_. Not the big heaving kind of crying, but soft and muffled, like she was trying to stifle them, yet still her hushed sobs pierced the quiet like a thunderclap.

Tom was at a loss. When the other children cried, he had dealt with them by ignoring their tears and walking away. It didn’t feel right to do the same now, to pretend that he hadn’t seen her. He didn’t know what to do, how to make his presence known, but he was saved the trouble — Ginny abruptly stood, the glowing end of her wand pointed in his direction, almost blinding him.

“ _Stand back_!” she snarled. “Don’t come any closer!”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He was close enough to see her tear streaked cheeks glistening in the wandlight, the circles under her eyes, the gauntness of her face.

“Ginny?”

Ginny fixed him with an unblinking stare and didn’t respond. Finally, after a moment that felt like ages, she lowered her wand.

“It’s you,” she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “It’s always you.”

There was something deep and unfathomable about her eyes — as if she was a million miles away, and not stuck in the bare garden of Wool’s Orphanage. She was a bit frightening, if Tom was being honest, but he took a step forward, ignoring the small voice in his head telling him to _run_.

“Ginny?” he tried again. “Are you all right?”

It was a silly question — it was plain to see what the answer was — but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. She didn’t seem to hear him, she just continued to hold his gaze, and then —

Tom must have been drowsier than he thought, because it took him longer than he should have to realize she was laughing. It was a low laugh that caught in her throat, and it had a terrible hollowness that sent a pang through his chest.

“I’m running out of time,” she said. Her voice rose, bordering somewhere on hysteria. “Nothing I do, it’s never enough, and you — you’re just . . .”

Ginny broke their stare and paced restlessly, before coming to a stop below the fir tree, on the same spot where he found her. She slid down and sat leaning against the trunk, her eyes closed. It was so cold that Tom could see her breath fog in the air, and it was then that he noticed her clothes were wet, her hair tangled and flat like she had just gotten out of the rain.

“Here’s something they won’t teach you in Hogwarts,” she said suddenly, her eyes snapping open, “and it’s the most important lesson you’ll ever learn: _magic is intent_. I learned that from a friend of mine. He wanted to take the world apart and see how it worked, and then put it back together, worse than when he found it.”

Tom’s heart thudded in his ears and again he heard that same, instinctual voice — the voice encouraging him to _run_ , _get out now_ — but it was Ginny. She would never do anything to hurt him.

He couldn’t help but be curious, too. Ginny never spoke of her friends, of her family, of anything about her life outside of her visits to him, but now she had given him a glimpse, her dark eyes drawing him in, and he couldn’t look away.

“The Muggles, they have this law. Entropy, they call it. Have you heard of it?”

Tom had, but Ginny didn’t wait for him to respond.

“Magic is like that. Spells and wands, we use them to direct our power, and when we do, there’s always a cost. Charms, jinxes, hexes — and curses, especially. We lose something, when we use our magic. Most of the time it’s simple, nothing too alarming: the effort it takes to cast, the breath in our lungs when we say the words, the — the time” — she drew in a shuddering breath, her hand flying to the locket around her neck — “we need, to learn and to practice how to do it. How to get it right.”

Ginny stood and stepped out of the tree’s shadow. Under the moonlight, her pale face seemed worn and haunted, and Tom realized she looked worse than he thought — her clothes were torn in places, and there were small cuts along her arms and face.

“Magic is intent,” she continued. “When you cast a spell, any spell, you have to believe it — _really_ believe it. It’s not enough to want it, but you have to believe that what you stand to lose is worth the price.

“And sometimes it’s not. You can try and justify it, but sometimes the price is too steep and you can . . . you’ll lose yourself, and nothing will ever be worth that much. Do you understand, Tom?”

He wished he could say yes. He wanted desperately to give her the answer she was looking for, but they both knew it wouldn’t be true.

“Listen to me,” said Ginny after a long silence. She looked away and laughed the same hollow laugh that made his stomach churn. “I must sound like a total nutter to you.”

Tom forced himself to inch closer. His eyes cut over her profile, and she clenched her jaw tightly.

“What happened, Ginny?”

“Too much, and too little. There’s not enough time. There won’t ever be, will there?”

For the first time, he was glad for such a vague answer. He had never seen her like this — hard and bitter, but somehow small and vulnerable. She seemed so much older now, in a way he couldn’t explain, and he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know why.

Ginny took another sharp breath and rubbed her forehead, glancing around the garden as if seeing it for the first time. When she turned to look at him, something in her eyes had softened, and though she was still unsmiling, Tom suddenly felt that the Ginny he knew was back again.

“I know it’s not your thing,” she said softly, “but can I hug you? It’s — I know it’s stupid and I’m not making any sense, but just this once, is that all right?”

Tom blinked, thrown by the sudden request. He hesitated before coming to her side, half-expecting Ginny to disappear as he approached. But she didn’t — she simply leaned forward and held him, surprisingly tight, when he was close enough to reach. Despite her sodden robes, her damp skin, her sweat-soaked hair, there was a warmth emanating from her that made something inside him shift. 

That someone could feel so real, could be so solid, so alive. . . . Was this why people hugged? To know the person in your arms is alive? To know you are too?

“Not long now, Tom,” said Ginny, but he barely heard her. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel this, to remember, to know it by heart: _real._

It was dawn when Tom opened his eyes. He stared up at his cracked ceiling, listening to the sound of the city as it came to life. He must have laid there for hours, silent and motionless, but even as sunlight began to flood through his windows, he still felt the loss of it — the cold in a space where there used to be life.

* * *

The days passed, turned to weeks, turned to months.

Tom waited. In the still moments of the night, he wondered about her last visit. He thought he was used to her idiosyncrasies, that nothing short of seeing Hogwarts with his own eyes could surprise him — but then, that was very much like Ginny, wasn’t it? To be constant, yet unexpected.

He wondered what had happened, for her to be so distressed and . . . _broken_ , he supposed, was the only word for it. She was always careful to hide her hurts and her secrets. What could have happened to break that veneer? Whatever it was, was it why she had yet to return? Was she better now? Was she all right?

He tried not to assume the worst. Surely whatever it was that had her so upset would be dealt with soon. And then, when she returned, she would tell him the whole story. It must be something fantastic, something even more extraordinary than all the others, for her to be gone for so long.

_But what if —_

No.

She would be all right. She always was.

The new year passed without a sign of Ginny.

Amy Benson got adopted, much to his relief. Dennis Bishop didn’t, much to his annoyance. They had been more unbearable after their summer outing to the seaside. While they kept away from him for the most part, they had also gotten a little braver in their pestering about his routine and secret trips. Tom almost wished he had gone through with his plan — to take them to the cave he had found and give them a good scare — but he knew Ginny would have chastised him for it. She always seemed to know when and how he used his magic. With the state she had been in last time, he didn’t want to give her any more cause to be disappointed in him.

More children came through the gates. Some left with their new families, others because they were too old to stay.

Tom didn’t bother with any of them, and they knew better than to bother with him. Even the older ones, like that loudmouthed Billy Stubbs, had learned to stay away from Tom. They didn’t call him mad, not when he could hear, but he knew they talked about him all the same. They looked at him with suspicious, hateful eyes, and a hush would descend whenever he entered the room.

He didn’t care. He knew he was different, that he was special, and that was all that mattered. Better to be thought crazy than to be thought an average, worthless orphan.

Besides, he had the wizarding world to look forward to. _Not long now_ , Ginny had said. Maybe that was what she meant — that he was going to Hogwarts soon.

 _I’ll come back._ She had said that too.

So Tom waited.

In between his normal lessons and homework, he practiced the spells she taught him, so he could have stories of his own to tell her. He repeated the incantations over and over, until the words felt familiar on his tongue, less clumsy and more real.

Because it was real, wasn’t it? The proof was in front of him, plain as day — he could make things move and change and fly.

He kept an eye out for her when he wandered the city, retracing the places they visited — the run-down café, the bus stop, the duck pond in St. James’ Park. Sometimes he would see a flash of red in his periphery or hear the swish of rustling clothing in the dark. Each time his heart leapt in his chest, only to sink to his feet once he realized it was nothing more than a trick of the light.

He spoke to the snakes he found in the garden, for lack of anyone else to talk to.

“ _The Master knows_ ,” they said to him. “ _The Master remembers._ ”

Tom didn’t know why they called Ginny that, but he chalked it up to the wizarding world’s strangeness. Ginny would explain it, when she returned.

She was going to return, wasn’t she?

She promised, didn’t she?

 _I’m not people_ , she had told him.

Another thought rose unbidden, a familiar, doubtful voice in the back of his head whispering, _But what if . . ._

More months passed.

Tom didn’t know how so much of it did before he even noticed. Time used to pass slowly in Wool’s Orphanage. It used to feel like ages for the summer sun to set, for the autumn leaves to fall, for the winter snows to melt.

But now time had sneaked past unnoticed, like a wicked shadow beneath his feet. Expanding, growing, bleeding.

_But what if . . ._

Another year.

Children came and went. Parents came and went. The Danny Watsons and Amy Bensons left, while the Billy Stubbses and Dennis Bishops remained.

Tom Riddle remained.

On New Year's Eve, he stood on the rooftop of the orphanage and looked at the stars above, at the city below, at the monochrome world around him. Fireworks lit up the sky, a shower of colour and embers, but he saw none of it. His shadow crept in the non-space between them, twisting and slithering and writhing.

Being eleven, he mused, didn’t feel all that different from being ten. It was as if nothing had changed.

But something had, hadn’t it? He knew now that it had been a lie all along.

Ginny, it turned out, was people.

She stood alone in a long, dark corridor. There was a door at the end, plain and nondescript, but something about it made her heart pound in excitement. She wanted to rush towards it, to see what was on the other side. It was the sort of thing he would do, wasn’t it? The sort of thing she would do as well, and yet —

Fear surged through her. She had been here before, she realized. This place was familiar, and so was that door, and it was —

The door was opening. A sliver of light sliced through the dim corridor, broadening across the stone floor, and she caught a glimpse of —


	2. Chapter 2

The first time she stole one of her brothers' brooms, Ginny had been airborne for less than a minute before she had fallen off and broken her arm. At the time, it had been the most terrifying thing in the world, and for days on end, she remembered the throbbing pain whenever she passed by her family's broom shed. She remembered the impact that walloped the air out of her lungs, the sharp crack that rang in her ears, the warm taste of salt that filled her mouth when her teeth punched bloody holes in her tongue.

She had thought that was the end of it, that she would never fly again.

And yet she did. One evening, weeks after her arm had healed, Ginny had taken Charlie's broom and up she had soared. She would never forget the feeling — the rush of fierce joy as she flew, the flash of recklessness that told her to go higher, faster, walk the skies, prove her brothers wrong. The wind had rushed through her hair, raking at her with taloned fingernails, sharper than knives, and it had been _wonderful_.

But it hadn't been enough to make her forget what it felt like to fall. It had lasted for less than a heartbeat, that moment when she hung suspended in mid-air, in the in-between of the fear of the fall and the freedom of flight. A moment of hope, when her heart stuttered in her chest, when she thought maybe she would stay there — floating, hovering, unbound — before the great vast shadow of the ground loomed up beneath her.

Ginny felt it now as time spun outward, pulling this instant into ages. Her view of the sky spun right then left then back again, as if the world was trying on strange new angles for her approval. The same foolish hope rose up inside her, this wild, desperate thought: _it's over, it's the end, let this be the end_.

It never was. Still, the locket burned and pressed down on her chest, the warning that came before the push-pull, like a more painful, uncontrollable sort of Apparition. Then the whirl of wind and colour, then the fall, then the landing.

And then — Tom Riddle.

No matter where she went, no matter _when_ she went, he was always there. A cruel fucking joke if there ever was one. It was as if he was chasing her — or maybe she was chasing him, it was hard to say. She had been falling for so long, jumping and crashing into unknowns, that she couldn't remember how many times it had happened, didn't know how long this would go on for.

 _Yes, you do_ , said a kind, gentle voice at the back of her mind. _You know what will happen. What has already happened._

With it came the guilty tugging at her throat, a feeling that wouldn't disappear however much Ginny loosened her collar and tried to wave away the words. She had lost count of all the times she had tried to tune it out — all the times she caught glimpses of Riddle, all the times she tried to escape.

Merlin, how she tried.

Ginny had done all she could think of, but none of her attempts worked. None of it ever came close. Each time she thought she had gone far enough, thought she had put enough distance between them — each time she allowed herself to hope — the locket would burn again, she would fall again, she would see Riddle again, and on and on it went. At some point, she had stopped running —

_But you haven't stopped, have you, Ginny? You're still running away. You're running now._

— and settled for the next best thing.

She hid, as best as she could.

It was hard to stay out of sight when she landed in London. Harder, when she found herself in Wool's Orphanage. Riddle, younger and more childlike than he had any right to be, was always waiting for her. It was almost as if he was attuned to her comings and goings, his eyes searching for her through the crowds, the trees, the mist, wherever her hiding place was. If not for her quick reflexes, Ginny was certain Riddle would have spotted her long ago.

 _But how long is long ago?_ she thought. _How long can I really keep this up?_

Once, too overwhelmed by these musings, Ginny had been slower to react than usual, and Riddle had very nearly caught her dazedly wandering around a Muggle village. She had ducked inside a crowded pub just in time, and she had gotten a good look at him through the grimy windows. Riddle had looked about her age — though how old she was now, she couldn't say — and handsomer than she had ever seen him. The thick sheaf of his black hair was combed back, and he loped with practiced grace in his dark Muggle clothes. It was almost as if she was peering at some other, more pleasant reality, almost as if —

Ginny buried the thought before it could take root, but she could still see the shape of it. The voice was getting harder to ignore.

Unlike Muggle London, Hogwarts was familiar, a mirror of home. If she could hide there forever, she would. It was easier to disappear down the endless, stretching corridors of the castle, to run behind the empty, unused classrooms, to pretend she was simply sneaking out after curfew the way she used to.

But it wasn't better. Behind the castle's walls, the voice was louder and ever insistent. A reminder, more than the burning of the locket, more than the weight of the diary, that there was only one way this could go.

Ginny refused to listen — didn't _want_ to listen — and she continued to wonder about the end. She longed for it more than she cared to admit, though she knew, with the bitter sting of certainty, that Harry would have been disappointed in her for thinking it. But hope was exhausting, and there was no one here to stop her from wondering.

 _But there is an ending_ , came the voice, a call echoing through her. _There is an end._

But how? When?

And why this? Why was this her only option, her only choice? It didn't feel like a choice. It didn't feel like hope either.

Of all the bloody second chances, of all the godforsaken ways to save this fucking world, why did it have to be this? Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be _him_?

It was always him.

Again, the locket burned, and Ginny closed her eyes. There was a piercing flood of light, blinding her, drowning her.

Burning. Falling. Landing.

Riddle.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And then —

And then.

Ginny couldn't say when it happened or how. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it was inevitable. All she knew was that she was tired, that snow was drifting over her, that the warmth of her breath formed faint grey clouds that blocked her view of the stars. She lay by the frozen lake and marvelled at her body's failure to break when her mind and her heart had given so easily.

 _Remember the last page,_ said the voice, as calm as it ever was. Those sad blue eyes, those sad words, a call demanding an answer. _Keep it, carry it with you. . . . Cling to it, if you must._

She could hear the distant bursts of fireworks. The witching hour, marking a new day. A new year, a new beginning.

How fucking appropriate.

 _He needs you_ — _more than you know._

At last, she was forced to accept that she had gone on living despite her every readiness to die. She heaved her way through dry, racking sobs; she didn't have it in her to cry actual tears. Not again, not anymore.

_But don't forget._

How could she, when the diary in her pocket was just as much a noose as the locket around her neck? All those dates, his words, the careful slant and curve of his handwriting — they were embedded in her memory.

_Never forget the end._

And so Ginny rose.

"Professor —"

Tom hesitated. The question that had been rattling in his head for years and years suddenly seemed impossible to say aloud.

The old man was still staring at him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I can talk to snakes," said Tom, before the silence could drag on any longer. "Is that normal for a wizard?"

Albus Dumbledore cast him a long appraising look, and Tom could tell he didn't like what he saw. No one ever did, but he had thought maybe this man, who was special too, might see something else. . . .

"It is unusual," said Dumbledore, a definite coolness in his voice, "but not unheard of."

Then he swept out the door, out of the building and through the gates, him and his ridiculously gaudy plum-coloured suit.

Tom returned to his bedroom and collapsed on the thin mattress, almost limp with relief. It was real. It was all real. The stories, Hogwarts, _magic_ — they weren't made up.

Bright flashes of memory sparked through Tom's mind. A mug of hot chocolate cradled in his hands, Ginny warning him to let it cool before he took a sip. The rain beating against the glass of the dingy little café, where he'd listened and hung on her every word. The quiet afternoon in St. James' Park, her face turned towards the sun, the summer wind lifting her red hair. The last time he saw her, her unsettling sobs, the surge of warmth he'd felt when she held him.

Tom had turned that night over and over in his head. He hadn't known it was her goodbye. If he had, he would have —

What? What would he have done? People disappeared all the time, walking in and out and often without a word of warning.

Ginny had been different. She had been his one constant in a world of perpetually changing destinies, until . . .

But Dumbledore had come. Dumbledore had arrived with Tom's letter just as she said he would, and Tom felt something like hope uncurl in his chest. All this time, his magic had been his only assurance that he wasn't mad, that he wasn't what Mrs. Cole and everyone in this awful place said he was. He had sat through Dumbledore's visit, barely processing what the old man was telling him, wondering at what point his emotions would be so tightly knotted his head would explode.

Ginny hadn't lied. She hadn't lied about Hogwarts. It was real, and so was she, and maybe —

Tom willed that hope into stillness, glowering furiously up at his ceiling. If Ginny had intended to return, then surely she would have a long time ago. She would have taken him away from this orphanage instead of leaving him with nothing but her promises.

 _Empty promises_ , he reminded himself. After all, what was the point of her visits, her lessons, her stories, if she never intended to stay?

And if something truly terrible had happened to her, if she had a good, proper reason for her disappearance, then why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she warned him? She could have sent someone, she could have given him a letter, with those owls she said wizards used, but she didn't. He must have meant so little to her that she hadn't bothered.

Tom had almost asked Dumbledore about her, if he knew her like her stories implied. But though Tom burned with the need to know, a foolish part of him — the part that still remembered the feel of her hand in his, the fondness in her eyes when she answered his questions about the wizarding world — had been afraid of the answer. It would have been a final, decisive confirmation that Ginny was like everyone else. That she saw him as everyone else did.

Tom didn't want to believe it. He was _special_. He was more than just another orphan, more than just another face in the horde.

_And one day everyone will know it too._

He carried the words with him, inside him, echoing around that hollow growing in his gut.

* * *

Hogwarts was, in a lot of ways, disappointing.

It didn't take long for Tom to parse out that, underneath the brightness and novelty of magic, it wasn't so different from being back at the orphanage. The funny boys and the well-behaved girls, the charismatic ones that Mrs. Cole and the orphanage staff liked best, the Danny Watsons and the Amy Bensons — Tom saw them in his housemates. The finely-dressed Blacks, the sandy-haired Selwyns, the Hornby siblings, even the unfortunately named Abraxas Malfoy . . .

Tom had been rejected from his House almost as soon as he'd arrived. His dormmates were from old, well-off wizarding families and all knew each other from childhood, with plenty of shared stories and memories.

"Riddle, is it?" said Sebastian Lestrange on the first night. He sounded posh and looked it too, with his pinched expression and slicked back hair. "I don't know the name."

"You must not know many names then," said Tom calmly, keeping his expression neutral.

"Lay off, Seb," said Alphard Black in a clipped, breezy tone. "It's too early to be getting into fights."

Lestrange scowled. "I've the right to know if I'm sharing a dorm with a filthy Mudblood!"

The hair on the back of Tom's neck stood on end. Tom didn't know what the word meant, but he didn't need to — the disdain in Lestrange's tone was clear enough.

"You won't have a choice either way," said Black lightly, "so you might as well let it go before Malcolm finishes your treacle tart."

Malcolm Mulciber and Bertram Avery, the other boys in his year, didn't bother to include Tom in their conversation, and the girls were no different. Their eyes flicked down to the sleeves and hems of his second-hand robes and then flicked away, dismissing him.

The other Houses seemed friendlier and didn't put as much stock in his surname as the Slytherins did. But the first-years Tom had met on the train were already a tight-knit group, and he saw little of them outside of their shared classes. Algernon Longbottom, Yazmin Chandra, and Florence Fawley were kind enough, but they knew each other well and often Tom couldn't follow what they were saying. Algie and Yaz had both gone to Gryffindor, while Florence was often with her fellow Hufflepuffs, including the rather loudmouthed Augusta Travers.

Tom found himself glancing at their tables at mealtimes, wondering what it would be like if he had been sorted with them instead. It would have been easier, he knew, but he couldn't imagine wearing any other colour but green and silver. He was certain he belonged in Slytherin, even if his housemates called him _Mudblood_ behind his back. Everyone did, except the few who got right in his face. Like Malfoy, who was two years above Tom and perhaps the worst offender. He took vicious pleasure in reminding Tom of his lack of bloodline, when he wasn't busy bragging about his own to the gang of cronies that constantly flanked him.

The classes, at least, were something to look forward to. Where the other students shouted and floundered, Tom was always the first to perform the spells correctly, and the teachers had taken note. Slughorn, in particular, was quite impressed with Tom, though his compliments were always accompanied by surprise at Tom's background. More infuriating was how Slughorn reserved his most effusive praises for Black, who didn't even pay attention in class.

Still, Tom would rather have Slughorn's favouritism than Dumbledore's scrutiny. Under Dumbledore's distrustful eyes, Tom had a more difficult time using his wand for even the most basic spells. During one lesson, he had gotten so frustrated that, when no one was watching, he had put his wand down on the table, taken the matchstick between his fingers, and stared at it until it turned into a needle.

That is, Tom had thought no one was watching.

"How did you do that?" said Enid Callahan, the quiet Gryffindor who was working next to him. She had wide-set eyes and a round face, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

Tom almost didn't answer her; she had spoken so softly he could have pretended he hadn't heard her.

"Anyone can do it," muttered Tom. The light pouring in from the windows made her straggly blonde hair shine like red-gold, and the sight made his stomach clench.

"But without a wand!" said Enid, with just a twinge of an Irish accent. "Wandless magic is supposed to be the hardest to learn."

"Only because everyone forgets. We've been doing wandless magic before we came here."

"But it's accidental magic, isn't it?"

"Mine isn't." Tom covered the needle with his hand and concentrated. When he took his hand away, his matchstick had returned, just as it was before. "I'll never forget."

Tom's mood lifted at the awed look on Enid's face, but it didn't last long. Dumbledore had come to check on their progress and awarded Tom points in a curt, unimpressed tone.

But worse than Dumbledore, worse than the Slytherins' unthinking loathing, was the scramble for sleep. There were times when Tom woke in the middle of the night, afraid of the shadows, of the thought that this was just a dream and he really was in an asylum — exactly where he'd always been told he would end up. He had no trinkets or trophies to remind himself that he was more powerful than those that hated him, no familiar shadows.

If not for the lake on the school grounds, Tom felt his time at Hogwarts would have devolved into a quiet, seven-year long despair. Most nights, he snuck up here from the dungeons, ostensibly to catch up on his schoolwork, but the simple truth was that he couldn't stand the buzz of the students around him, their pitying looks and their whispered taunts.

Was it possible that, after so many years of waiting, he had built an image of Hogwarts that could not match the reality?

It wasn't that Hogwarts wasn't magnificent, because of course it was. But the castle seemed to change each time Tom looked at it, twisting in on itself like a labyrinth. It was vast and bewildering and sometimes a little frightening, with its looming towers and secret passages, its huge staircases that led to nowhere and entire wings that no one ever visited. There were unspoken rules and casual customs everyone but Tom appeared to know, and there were so many people — more people than the children in his Muggle school — that it was a little bit overwhelming.

It was so easy to get lost in the buzz and bustle of Hogwarts. So easy to be overlooked.

But here, by the lake, the waters were still and mercifully silent. Here, he could watch the slow spin of the stars, something far older and more magical than even the castle itself.

In these quiet moments, Tom let his thoughts drift, and inevitably they lingered on Ginny. When he slipped away from the common room and explored the deserted corridors, he imagined finding her on the lakeshore, stretched out on the grass, watching her silver horse gallop over the black waters. And then she'd lift her head and smile and _finally_ , he'd think, someone was happy to see him.

It was childish to wish and embarrassing to admit aloud, but even now he wanted her to come swooping in through the fog, with her brilliant stories and her stupid reminders. He wanted to tell her about his marks and his classes and the Slytherins, how the teachers liked him and how horrible the other children were. He wanted her to tut and shake her head when he told her about practicing hexes in his spare time, then watch her flounder when he asked her what she'd do against Malfoy and his lackeys instead. He wanted to listen to her get excited about Quidditch, even though he didn't see the appeal in flying on brooms and chasing after enchanted balls.

Mostly, Tom wanted to see her. He didn't miss the Muggle world, he certainly didn't miss Wool's Orphanage, but he missed how easy things had been, how comfortable, to simply have her near and to be wrapped up in silence like a safe cocoon.

September came to an end and soon so did October, ushering in howling winds and the chilly haze of rain. Tom fought for every scrap of sleep he could find in the dungeons under the lake, casted spells he learned when he was six in raucous classrooms, and flattered and smiled at his teachers, as if their confused praises didn't rankle as much as Dumbledore's indifference and his housemates' hostility. On cloudless nights, he bundled himself up in his frayed overcoat and every warming charm he knew and sought peace in the frost covered grounds. In the daylight, he followed the path thousands of wizards before him had mapped out over and over, walked the same halls, learned the same things, watched the same skies —

And Tom waited. For what, he wasn't entirely sure.

A break from the monotony, maybe. A break from the greys and fading colours of routine. From the dismissive contempt, from the never-ending _noise_ of the conversations around him, about having the right blood, the right connections, the boasting of centuries old traditions that hadn't made them any more powerful — and in him, a burning desire to prove them all wrong. It was familiar, almost a comfort, a cold fire stoked with every disdainful look, every sneering insult.

Because as grand as Hogwarts was, it was also _small_. It held only a piece of the sky. A society of its own, yes, but merely a reflection of the one beyond its walls. In this new world, with its atrophied standards, the currency was the bloodline you carried.

 _I can use this_ , Tom thought.

The louder it gets, the quieter he becomes.

* * *

The Quidditch season had begun. The anticipation was palpable, and the first-years were more excitable than usual during their flying lesson that Friday. Hardly anyone was paying attention to Professor Agyeman's instructions, too busy whispering to each other about tomorrow's match. Tom too was only half-listening, though not because he shared in his classmates' excitement.

He simply didn't like flying. It seemed to him like an easy way to die. A strong gust of wind, too loose a grip, and you could fall off, snap your neck, and then nothing. Quidditch, from the stories he'd heard from the older students, sounded even worse, with its bats and Bludgers and overly enthusiastic players trying to knock each other off their brooms.

Tom supposed it must be why flying didn't come as naturally to him as other sorts of magic. He wasn't the only one having trouble; Enid, who stood with the Gryffindors in the row facing Tom, was struggling to get off the ground. Next to her was Algie, who was running a hand through his sandy hair, spiking it up in uneven tufts, as he leaned towards Enid to give her pointers. Across from them, Lestrange was frowning with the effort to keep himself balanced on his hovering broomstick. He kept shooting envious looks at Winifred Crockett, the blonde, haughty-looking Slytherin who had been the first to finish Agyeman's drills. She was now talking to Isolde Selwyn, another Slytherin who had learned how to fly before going to Hogwarts.

Tom himself was still wobbling on his broom. Although he was only a few inches off the ground, his stomach gave a panicked jolt when he accidentally glanced down. _You're being stupid_ , he told himself. He'd gone higher than this before, hadn't he? The trees he had climbed at Wool's had been much more frightening — flying should be easy.

"Loosen your grip."

Tom turned. Black sat astride his broom, a little higher than he should be, fiddling with the bent tail twigs and swinging his legs.

"Old brooms like these, they get skittish," he said. "It can tell you're nervous, so it's not going to let you take control. It won't even let you dismount if it knows you're scared."

"I'm not scared," said Tom, pleased his voice came out steady.

Black raised his eyebrows. "Then loosen your grip."

"I don't need your help," sneered Tom.

Black looked taken aback. "It's just a suggestion."

"I don't need suggestions."

"Oh — well . . ."

Black stared at Tom, his head tilted, still picking at his broom's twigs. Then he glanced at Professor Agyeman, who was busy helping Mulciber, Avery, and the two Gryffindors opposite them. Sure she was distracted, Black leant to his right, executing a perfect barrel roll, and grinned when he swung himself back upright.

"You can't do that if you don't loosen your grip," he said smugly.

Yaz giggled. She was directly across from them, and Tom hadn't realized she had been watching. She tossed her long, pin-straight hair over her shoulder and slowly flipped herself over, wobbling only slightly when she came to be upright again. Yaz and Black grinned at each other, then at Tom; their smiles, this time, were daring.

Feeling rather cornered, Tom glanced at Agyeman. She was still talking to Mulciber, who clearly hadn't heard a word she'd said; he had been watching Black too. Tom turned to Yaz and Black again and, before he could change his mind, carefully loosened his grip.

A second passed. Then another.

Nothing happened.

Tom felt himself relax. He tried to get the broom to go upwards, and it did, considerably more compliant than before. A few seconds later, he managed to steady himself at Black's height, and he let himself fall sideways. His stomach turned, but as he came back to the proper position, he had to fight the urge to laugh.

That had to be one of the most fun things he'd ever done. It was such a simple, childish stunt, but over the months and years to come, no perfectly brewed potion or successfully cast spell would ever be quite as precious to him as the blurred sight of the grass whizzing above his head or the rush of air as he felt the space between himself and the ground.

By the time the class ended, Tom was worn out, his limbs aching from the unaccustomed movements. The sun sat low in the sky as he trudged back to the castle, and he saw Enid, Yaz, and Algie several paces ahead of him, their heads bent together. Tom felt a strange sort of pang as they circled around the lake and disappeared out of sight.

Seconds later, Black wandered over. He was built from the same blueprint as his relatives: inky black hair, sharp cheekbones, and long limbs that, on anyone else, would have looked gangly, but made Black and his family look distinguished.

"Is it true, what they're saying about you?" said Black.

Tom looked at him, askance. "They say a lot of things. Which one?"

"About you being a Mudblood, for a start."

Tom felt his stomach shrivel. _That word again_. Dirty blood. Common blood. A reminder of his place in this microcosm of society.

"I'm not," he said tersely.

"What about your parents then?" asked Black, seemingly unaware of Tom's glower. "I know for sure Riddle isn't a wizarding name."

Tom glared at him harder. "And how would you know that?"

Black waved his hand dismissively. "I know everything about this sort of thing. I'm sure Father wouldn't have let me board the train if I hadn't had the tapestry memorized. So — Tom Riddle. Hmm. Got a middle name?"

"Why?"

"Didn't I just say? I know these things. I might recognize it. Wizarding families, we're all related one way or another, so if you aren't Muggle-born, then your parents or their parents or theirs, they'd have married into my family at some point."

This made Tom perk up a little. He didn't like the thought of being related to Black, but . . .

"Marvolo," he said.

"You're named after someone, aren't you?" said Black sagely. "It's an old name."

"How do you know?"

"Old naming convention, which sounds fancy but, really, all it means is wizards like to recycle. Take my name, for example. Alphard — brightest star in the constellation Hydra. First of my name, but it'll get used again if I don't get disowned. It's tradition."

Tom tensed. "So you think Marvolo, the one I'm named for — he could be a wizard?"

"He could be, but I don't know any Marvolo's," said Black thoughtfully, and Tom lost interest again.

They walked in silence for a few moments. Tom could feel Black's hesitation, almost like it was a tangible thing, like he could _see_ the question lurking behind Black's eyes: _What about your mother?_

Tom didn't know how he knew, why he was certain of such a thing, but his sixth sense, what he'd come to realize was his magical instinct, was telling him he was right. It was telling him that Black was thinking it, but what little tact he had kept him from saying it aloud.

 _What about your mother?_ Tom hadn't considered it before; it seemed unlikely that his mother could have been descended from wizards. But he hadn't found anything about his father from Hogwarts' records, and if Marvolo truly was an old wizard name . . .

"So are you?" said Black after a while. "Did you really grow up around Muggles?"

Tom's hand itched to grab his wand, a dozen hexes on the tip of his tongue. But Black was Slughorn's favourite student, and Tom had enough strikes against him; he wouldn't be able to get away with anything without scrutiny.

"Yes," said Tom coolly.

The word had an immediate effect. Black's jaw went slack, his eyes grew very wide, and a look of reflexive disgust mingled with his astonishment.

"What's that like?" he asked.

"The usual," said Tom through gritted teeth.

"I don't know what that is," Black whinged. "What's usual for Muggles? Laurie — Laurence Flint, he's in my sister's year — he says they've figured out how to fly without magic, but I'm not too sure I believe him. He's always pulling the mickey. One time, he told me Muggles have their own house-elves, and I _almost_ believed him, until Lucretia — that's my cousin, she's in Burgie's year too — she said —"

"Muggles don't have house-elves," Tom cut him off, not a little irritated.

Black made an agreeable noise. "Thought so. But who does all the housework then?" The revulsion was gone now, and he simply looked bewildered. "I mean, it can't be you even if you are magical, because that's probably not allowed, is it, kids doing the cleaning. But then who does it if your Muggles haven't got any magic?"

"Other Muggles. They come in and get paid for it."

Black looked awed. "Really?"

"Sometimes there are volunteers."

"Who'd want to do that?"

"Rich folks who like to feel good about themselves."

"They _like_ it?" Black seemed to be having trouble grasping this concept too. "And they do it without magic? Washing and dusting and scrubbing like a . . . like a . . ."

"A Muggle?" drawled Tom. For God's sake, did Black ever stop talking? "They don't do any of that though, just the cooking and serving. Soup and the like."

"Why soup?"

Tom shrugged. He didn't know either.

Black furrowed his brow and seemed briefly lost in contemplation. Then he looked up, burning with questions again. "So do you have a contraption?"

"A what?"

"A contraption!" said Black, waving his hands excitedly. "Noisy box-shaped things with seats and rubber wheels! Horseless carriages that Muggles ride in!"

It took Tom a moment to realize what he was saying. "Cars, you mean."

Black grinned, his eyes wide and eager. "Is that what they're called? _Confounded, wretched monstrosities_ , Mother calls them, because they always wake her up with all the banging and whirring — and all the smoke doesn't make for a nice view in the morning —"

"You've seen them?" said Tom, surprised.

"There's a Muggle road in front of our house. I see them sometimes when my parents are out. They don't like drawing the curtains and seeing all the Muggles." There was a look of avid curiosity on Black's face now. "So do you?"

"What?"

"Have a contraption."

"No, I haven't got a car," said Tom testily, and before Black could ask again, he added, "And I don't know any Muggles with one either."

"Oh."

At last, Black had run out of things to say. Minutes crawled by before they reached the entrance hall, where laughter and light spilled out from the open double doors of the Great Hall. For a moment, Tom thought that Black would invite him to sit with them at dinner. It was a ridiculous idea, but he had the sense that Black was thinking quickly, formulating the invitation in his head.

But Black didn't ask. He stepped inside, waved quickly over his shoulder, then approached his friends on the Slytherin table.

Not that it mattered to Tom. He went up to the library, as he always did after class, the beginnings of an idea prickling at the back of his skull.

* * *

Saturday came, the day of the first Quidditch match of the season. The library was empty, except for Tom and the grey-haired librarian Madam Chiu, who was asleep in her chair.

A wave of exhaustion hit Tom as he closed the last of the books he'd been perusing. He had been going through Hogwarts' yearbooks all morning, searching for any mention of another Marvolo, his grandfather, but his efforts yielded nothing.

Maybe Black had been wrong . . . maybe he had been lying, trying to wind Tom up for a laugh. . . . Maybe Tom really was a Mudblood. . . .

But the more he thought about it, the more the name Marvolo sounded so . . . _regal_. Old. Pure-blooded. From the Latin _malivolo,_ meaning _malevolent._ Derived, in turn, from the verb _volo_ , meaning _to fly,_ or _I intend, I wish, I want_.

It certainly wasn't common, not like his father's name. . . .

A girl suddenly dropped into the seat across from Tom, with a cloud of curly dark hair, olive skin, and narrow eyes.

"Enid said you can do wandless magic," said Augusta Travers. Behind her, Enid gave a little wave, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. "Is it true?"

"Yes," said Tom warily.

Travers pulled out a large white feather and slid it across the table. "Show me."

Tom bristled. First Black and now Travers — what was he doing, getting harangued by toffs lately?

"We've been having trouble with Charms," said Enid, and Tom's shoulders settled. "The Levitation Charm, we can't get the hang of it, so we were hoping —" Travers cast her a threatening kind of look. Enid frowned at her, "— Oh, all right, _I_ was hoping, then — that maybe you could teach us — or, er, give us some pointers, if it isn't too much trouble."

Tom didn't answer at once, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Why me?" he said. He thought it was a reasonable enough question, but Travers sighed impatiently.

"I thought you said he was brilliant," she said to Enid.

"He is," said Enid quickly. She sat next to Travers and looked at Tom with a sheepish smile. "You are — but you know that, of course. You always get the spells right and you always get top marks and all the professors like you — so . . ."

"Are you going to help us or not?" said Travers, in her usual strident tone. "Not that we need the help, mind you. It's a soft class, Charms, and Professor Khan's a bit daft anyway, not giving us any proper instructions, with that swish and flick nonsense —"

She stopped abruptly as the feather rose off the table and hovered about four feet above her head. Tom suspected she would have gone on and on otherwise.

"How'd you do that?"

"Magic," said Tom, dry as dust.

"Don't get cheeky," said Travers, as Enid fought off a smile.

"It's true enough. Wands and words, they're just tools. We don't need them to do magic — they just make it easier to control."

Travers looked dubious. "But _you_ can control your magic without them."

Tom shrugged. "I've had practice. It all comes down to intent, and whether you believe you can do it or not, how much you're willing to give, how much you want it to work —"

"Well, I want it to work," she huffed, "but all I get for my trouble is an exploding feather."

"It's because you're forcing too much magic into the spell. You're not channelling it properly."

Travers straightened in her chair. "Do it the normal way, then, if you're so clever!"

The sleeping librarian startled and blinked at them with watery, unfocused eyes. Travers didn't notice; like Black, she seemed impervious to anything resembling a reproach.

Tom looked at Travers and Enid in turn. They were gazing at him expectantly, Enid with gigantic, pleading eyes and Travers with a tetchy, yet almost disinterested air about her. That peculiar instinct of his twinged, and he knew then that neither had any intention of leaving unless they got what they came for. Reluctantly, Tom took out his wand, flicked it, and said, " _Wingardium Leviosa_!"

But rather than leave as Tom had intended, they took his demonstration as an invitation to stay. Not only did they pester him with questions for the rest of the afternoon, but they continued to do so the day after — and again after that, and again, intruding on Tom in the library and in their classes to ask for help with their schoolwork. Enid, shy as she was, would most likely leave if he scared her enough, but he knew she wouldn't go unless Travers did, and Travers was too brazen, or perhaps too oblivious, to be intimidated by his glares and pointed remarks. Sometimes they brought Algie and Yaz with them, sometimes Florence, and sometimes they didn't do their homework at all but drew him into playing card games or talked about Quidditch and gossip and other silly things.

Tom didn't know how to get rid of them, but he had to admit — and to himself only — that he wasn't certain he wanted to. The Slytherins didn't torment him as much, for one thing, because Travers was pure-blood and a Hufflepuff to boot, and no one wanted to risk the wrath of Hufflepuffs. And for another . . .

Names had power, but so did numbers. Tom had learned that at Wool's Orphanage, in the way the other children clustered together, an impenetrable wall he'd had no desire to breach. It was much the same here in Hogwarts. The Slytherins flocked to Malfoy, to the Blacks, those with the purest blood, the most money, the most connections. The other Houses also banded against outsiders; they followed readily whoever proved the loudest, the smartest, the most deserving of respect.

Ready-made armies, one under each emblem.

There was power hidden here, and so Tom let Enid and Travers stay. Their company had been annoying at first and some days it still was, but nobody knew better than Tom that there was a time limit to good intentions, an expiration date before everyone gave up on you. It was good they extended the olive branch, because he wouldn't have known how to proceed, how to integrate himself in this bizarre world.

For now, he was forced to depend on them. Neither had used it against him so far, and the possibility that he might get used to it was unnerving.

The most surprising of Tom's uninvited guests was Alphard Black, who approached Tom, Enid, and Travers in the library one blustery evening at the end of November. He insisted he was there to do his Potions essay, but his books and parchment lay on the table forgotten as he badgered Tom with more questions about the Muggle world. It was Enid who eventually answered them, and she blushed to the roots of her hair when Black turned the full force of his attention on her.

"Are you Muggle-born too?"

"Oh, I'm a bit of everything," said Enid shyly. "See, Grammy Callahan's a witch all through and Grandpa was a half-blood, but my dad turned out Squib. And then on the other side, Grandad Lee was a Muggle and Nana was Muggle-born, so my mum grew up in the Muggle world, even though she's not exactly. Then she met Dad and thought he was Muggle at first, because Dad used to be an accountant until . . . well, anyway, Grammy's been insisting Mum and me live with her since I got my magic, but Mum only said yes when I got my letter, so I grew up with Muggles and everything."

All this was said in one breath. Tom hadn't caught half of it, and the other half he hadn't been able to keep track of, but Black beamed and asked if she grew up with a _contraption_ too.

"They're called cars," said Tom, annoyed.

Black wrinkled his nose. "That's such a dull name for them, _cars_. I like mine better — rolls off the tongue." He turned to Enid again. "So! Contraptions! Have you got one?"

"My dad did," said Enid.

Black beamed, leaning forward hungrily. "Does it go quite fast?"

"Just the normal speed, I think."

"What sort of contraption is it?"

Enid stared blankly at him. "Er — it's got a roof. And it's black."

"No, no, what kind?" Black pressed. "What make? What's the . . . the . . . oh, what was it . . . the brand!" He clicked his fingers triumphantly as he seized upon the word he wanted.

Enid shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Mum sold it when we moved. She never liked it much. I don't think she even learned how to drive it."

"Why not?" said Black disgustedly. "If I had a contraption, I'd find out everything I could."

Travers let out an exasperated sigh.

"And if I had a Potions essay, I'd be doing that instead," she said snappily. "Haven't you got anything better to do?"

Black scrubbed the back of his neck, picked up his still blank parchment, scrubbed his neck again. He always seemed to be in motion, as if he'd never learned how to keep still. "I'm sure old Sluggy won't mind. Do you know, I haven't submitted a single piece of homework yet, and he hasn't complained much. Last time I got sent to him, he just asked after my dad and sent me off again."

"Really?" said Enid, looking astonished. "No detentions at all?"

"Oh no, he's got me booked until Christmas," said Black cheerily. "I wouldn't want to deprive him the pleasure of my company."

Travers glanced at Tom, looking torn between disapproval and amusement. How she could possibly be the latter, Tom had no idea. Black spent the whole time keeping up a lively stream of conversation, distracting them all from getting any actual work done, as though he didn't have a care in the world.

Maybe because he didn't.

Why would people like Black, like Travers, all these people with pure blood in their veins, why would they worry? Why should they want for anything?

 _I can use this_.

Names had power, and Tom was beginning to realize what that entailed.

* * *

They are defined by moments, him and her.

Later, when all was said and done, Tom would look back at them and wonder. The signs were there, in those too short visits he'd taken for granted, in those fulsome words that shielded cold metal. And yet he hadn't known, hadn't seen.

Would it change anything, if he had?

Tom was loath to leave anything unanswered, but of all the what-ifs that plagued him, it was this he tried his utmost to bury. Some things were best left alone, some memories too fragile to unpack. Perhaps someday he would be content to keep them where they belonged — hidden, safe, untarnished by the shadows, even as his old self, the hungry unseen ghost, longed to hold them in his hands.

At eleven years old, Tom was still that hungry ghost, detached and with no way to make himself seen, no way but fear to make himself known.

During his first few weeks at Hogwarts, in between his search for his father and the possibly non-existent Marvolo, Tom had scoured the library's archive of old _Daily Prophet_ issues and student records for any trace of Ginny. It was clear she had been a student herself, as had the lost family she rarely mentioned, but they were missing from genealogies and tapestries. Each night he sat by the lake empty-handed, reminding himself that he had so little to go on — was it any wonder he couldn't find her?

Tom wasn't deaf to Mrs. Cole's whispers, to what the orphanage staff said about him when he had been stupid enough to wait by the gates, wearing his hope on his face so clearly. _Imaginary friend_ , they had said, and the words echoed in his head like a drumbeat. Poor mad little Tom, who belonged in an asylum. Monstrous Tom. Crazy Tom.

They were wrong, of course. They had always been wrong about Tom. To think that Ginny's stories, that Ginny herself, had all been make-believe — it was absurd. His magic was proof enough, wasn't it? _Hogwarts_ was proof enough.

His memories were too vivid to be made-up. It may have been years ago, but he remembered them as if no time had passed at all. Each time he cast about for a happy memory — the few times he dared to practice the Patronus Charm — he thought of her, always of her, and that day in the park. The waters had looked dozy in the afternoon glow, the light falling in golden shafts through the trees.

"Why here?" Tom had complained, but Ginny had merely smiled.

"Why not here?" she'd said, flinging a piece of bread into the pond. Several ducks attacked it at once, a flurry of green and brown feathers.

Tom watched them fight for a few seconds, then sighed. "This is boring."

"It hasn't been five minutes. You want to go back already?"

"I didn't say that," he said hastily. "I just don't see the point."

"In what?"

"Feeding the ducks."

Ginny shook her head. "That's very much the point, Tom. Not everything has to be something big and exciting to be worthwhile, sometimes it's the little things that . . ."

She wavered and looked away, her lips pressed in a thin line, but Tom recognized her tone; it was the one she used when she was trying to teach him something important. Maybe this whole trip was a lesson after all, though he couldn't see how it could be.

"No one remembers the little things," said Tom, because it was true.

"I used to think that too," said Ginny, throwing another piece of bread to a neglected white drake. Her expression was preoccupied, distracted, and he would have believed her if not for her next words. "My parents, my brothers, we used to fight about the little things — the big things too, sometimes, but stuff like — like who ate the last brownie or whose turn it is to do the dishes or why there's always a missing sock after every wash and whose fault it was. . . . I remember them best, those little things."

Tom glanced at her curiously. "You don't talk about them."

"There's not much to talk about anymore." Her voice dropped a little, like the words held too much weight. "All those small moments, I used to take them for granted, but now . . . I don't want to forget. I've forgotten so many things."

It didn't sound so terrible to Tom. There was a lot he'd like to forget, and even more that weren't worth remembering. It wasn't just Mrs. Cole's reprimands or Billy Stubbs and his bloody rabbit, but the other things that filled his day-to-day — the routine of Muggle school, the tedious countryside trips, the faces of parents who never wanted him, the other children and their silly games. All those dull, mundane things — symptoms of a life not being lived.

"I don't remember my mother," said Tom nonchalantly. "There must've been loads of things she'd forgotten by the end."

"She loved you," said Ginny, her voice gentle.

She must have, he supposed, but it didn't make a difference in the end. He told Ginny so and something flashed across her face, something that looked like anger or maybe even pain. An odd stillness seemed to stretch between them, and he had the disquieting notion that he'd failed some kind of test.

A breeze stirred, sending tendrils of hair across Ginny's face. Tom didn't realize he was staring until she said, "We had a pond in our garden. There used to be ducks there before the gnomes scared them off. I guess I was feeling nostalgic."

She looked away again. The tension in her shoulders had loosened, gone in the same instant he noticed it had been there at all.

"We can go somewhere else, if you want."

Tom considered, his eyes on the slender trees on the other side of the pond, gold leaves starting to mix with the green. When he looked up, Ginny had turned towards the sun, her eyes shut. She was smiling, her hair blowing in the wind, and he felt decidedly off-balance. That hole in his stomach, it started to shrink just a little, freeing up more space for him around it.

He had known then that it didn't matter where they went, whether it was this park or Diagon Alley, the streets of London or the garden at Wool's — he would have followed her anywhere.

It had been real, that day. Ginny had lied to him and broken her promises, but she had been real, and that had to mean something, surely.

 _I'm not mad_ , Tom thought. _It's real. I remember._

But doubt stirred inside him, right in that pit in his stomach that never quite left him anymore.

Memories dimmed and faded in time, Tom knew. Real or not real — perhaps one day he would forget even that.

* * *

If Tom had to point at any one time in his life and say _this is the fork in the road, this is the shift in the tide,_ it would be the December of his first-year. Not the day he first met her, not the day she returned. Not even the slow, muggy summer after she left, when the invisible thread that bound them together — shared memories, shared fates — frayed and burned in the heat.

Just that one afternoon in mid-December — though Tom didn't know it then.

The holidays were fast approaching, and the library was packed with students scrambling to finish their homework. Tom was once again joined by Enid, Travers, and Black, whose boundless chatter kept distracting him from his History of Magic essay. Professor Binns had asked them to research famous medieval wizards and warlocks, and Tom had taken it as an opportunity to learn more about Hogwarts' founders.

"Not surprising, really," said Black, when Tom had told them how little information he had gotten from _Hogwarts: A History_ , especially about Salazar Slytherin. "They all thought the other was barmy."

"Were they?" asked Enid.

Black shrugged. "Depends who you ask."

"Who cares?" said Travers, who was practicing the Mending Charm on a quill Black had snapped in half with his fidgeting. "Binns sure won't. You've found enough to fill twelve inches of parchment. Why bother with more?"

Because it wasn't enough. Even before he had a word for what he was, Tom had known he needed to seek as much knowledge as he could to make something of himself. It seemed to him too many took magic as a given — Muggle-borns because they were too elated to question it, pure-bloods because they always had it — and too little thought to ask _how_ magic worked, _why_ it did, and were content to simply know that it will.

He wanted to know more than that, to know everything. He couldn't explain it, but somehow he knew Slytherin was the place to start.

Tom was halfway through his third book when something caught his attention — a picture of the four Founders, frozen and unremarkable at a glance. Gryffindor, with his silver sword poised to strike; Ravenclaw, donning her sparkling diadem; Hufflepuff, holding a small cup by one of its finely wrought handles; and Slytherin, his fingers steepled over a golden locket around his neck.

Tom's breath caught in his throat as his eyes traced the serpentine _S_ , inlaid with glittering green stones. It stirred something in his memory; he had seen this locket before, but not from a library book nor from the portraits that adorned Hogwarts' walls. . . .

A high-pitched shriek jarred Tom from his thoughts. Enid was on her feet, her hands clapped to her mouth in alarm. Travers had set fire to the broken quill, and Tom had looked up just in time to see Black cast the Extinguishing Charm.

"Good show," said Black to Travers, as Enid sat back down, blushing furiously. Enid's startled yelp had attracted curious stares from the other students and a reproving glance from Madam Chiu. "You had it under control, you said. Didn't think that meant giving us a heart attack."

"That's funny," said Travers in a lofty tone. "If I remember it right, last time you said, 'Augusta, that was brilliant.'"

"Yeah, but I didn't mean it, obviously."

"You said 'brilliant' twice, I believe."

"Lies."

"You were really close this time," said Enid encouragingly. "You almost had it."

"'Almost' being the operative word," said Black, earning an elbow jab to his side from Enid.

Travers rolled her eyes. "At least I'm doing _something_. What've you done today?"

"Just the usual — put out fires, graced you with my presence —"

"Oh, thank God."

Travers said it so dryly that a laugh escaped Tom's throat before he could stop it. At once, three pairs of eyes turned to Tom, as if only now remembering he was there.

"Merlin, I didn't know you could laugh," said Black, smirking at him. "Careful now, you might pull a muscle."

Tom scowled, his amusement gone in an instant. "I laugh."

"Do you tell jokes too?"

"Don't be silly, Alphard," said Travers, snickering. She gave Black a full smile, dimple and all. "He hasn't got a sense of humour."

Tom scowled at her too.

"I have a perfectly good sense of humour," he huffed, his temper rising, but the two of them just laughed.

"Stop it!" said Enid sharply, and Travers and Black did. "It's not funny!"

Black blinked in confusion, frowning, then shook his head like he was just waking up. "We're only teasing. No need to be so serious about it."

"You were making fun of him," said Enid in a shaky voice.

Travers clucked her tongue. "We make fun of each other all the time. You don't take it personally, do you?" She turned to Tom, hesitated, then said, "It wouldn't kill you to join in once in a while. We're supposed to be your friends."

Tom wasn't sure what to say. For a long moment, no one seemed to, and the silence had the feel of a deliberate thing. Then Black sighed, loud and long.

"I'm sorry if we hurt your feelings, Tom," said Black, almost idly, but Tom could see he meant it. There was no trace of mockery on Black's face, no thinly veiled disdain in his unblinking stare, none of the things Tom had come to expect from his housemates and from the orphans at Wool's.

It occurred to Tom that there never was. For all his careless words and flippant manner, Black had never looked at Tom like something he would scrape off his boot. Neither did Travers, who was now darting worried looks at Tom. Neither did Enid, who had her lips pressed together, looking both nervous and disapproving.

"What feelings?" said Tom, in an equally wry tone.

Alphard stared at Tom, his head cocked to the side. "Huh. So you _do_ joke."

Tom caught Augusta's eye. Somehow it set them both laughing, and after a second Enid reluctantly giggled too. Their laughter seemed to leap from wall to wall, and it still rang in Tom's ears long after Madam Chiu came to chivvy them out of the library. Tom wasn't sure how the last of his anger had suddenly vanished, how the atmosphere had gone from serious to absurd in a few seconds, but maybe that was one of Alphard's talents; Alphard could diffuse tension as easily as he caused it.

That night, when Tom jolted awake, he didn't slink away from his dormitories. He stared at the green hangings around his bed, listening to the sound of water lapping against stone. He could be _happy_ here, he realized, something he hadn't imagined for himself when he'd learned how little he meant in this microcosm world.

He could be happy here, and the thought was a pocket of light in an overcast sky.

Tom rolled over and went back to sleep.

There it was again: the door at the end of the silent corridor.

"No," she said. Her voice echoed off the stone walls, which were cold and utterly dead beneath her fingertips.

She was frozen where she stood, terrified and excited, her every nerve tense. The door was coming closer, and she didn't understand why she was so frightened, why she felt the same helpless fear she felt when she was six years old, when she had fallen from her brother's broom —

That wasn't right, though, was it? She knew why. Light and shadow and battles and death, the answers were all on the other side —

"No," she said again. Why was she saying no? Why didn't she want to open the door? She knew what was behind it, and who, all those memories, didn't she want to see —

In the distance, she heard another voice, calling her name.

In the distance?

No — behind the door.

She felt like she was hearing an old friend, one she had never hoped to see again, fade into the crowd, and if only she could —

Ginny opened her eyes.

The red canopy above her stared back. Everything was quiet, except for the slow, deep breathing and soft snores of her roommates.

 _That dream again_ , she thought. It was the same dream, every night. Why had she only realized it now? Where had she seen it before? It was so vivid, so familiar, like something from her childhood, half-forgotten.

And why was she so afraid?

 _No, not afraid_. . . . How could she be afraid and excited at the same time? And because of a door, of all things. . . . Worried, maybe, would be the better word for it. _Anxious_.

So why was she so bloody anxious about a bloody door?

The question gnawed at her as the clock on her bedside table ticked, second by second. Ginny wasn't sure how much time managed to slip through her fingers before she got up and left her dormitory. She was too tense to get any more sleep for the night, so she might as well while away the hours elsewhere.

To her surprise, the common room wasn't empty. Ron sat on the couch by the fireplace; Hermione was next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. Ginny wondered if they had fallen asleep like that, linked, and the idea made her feel strangely lonely.

Across from them was Harry, his head bowed and his glasses askew. He looked dangerously close to toppling over. The dying firelight cast his face in shadow, and Ginny caught herself thinking, bizarrely, what it would feel like to brush back the tuft of hair that had fallen over his forehead. She crept towards him, intending to wake him before he banged his head on the table.

Harry sprung awake. He blinked blearily up at her as he fixed his glasses.

"Hello," he said, sounding confused.

"Hi," she said, unable to contain her smile. "Having fun?"

He blinked at her some more, then at the mess of parchment and books laid out on the table in front of him.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he said helplessly.

"It's Potions again, isn't it?"

Harry looked up, a little surprised, and he let out a frustrated huff. "Should've dropped it when I had the chance."

Ginny snorted. "You can't be an Auror without it. How else are you going to save the world if you don't know" — she picked up one of the papers at random and tried to make out Harry's handwriting — "the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Harry grimaced. "I could always ask Hermione."

"I reckon Hermione will be too busy for that."

At his confused frown, Ginny inclined her head towards Ron and Hermione, who were still curled together, quiet and peaceful in a way they rarely were when they were awake and butting heads. Ginny and Harry exchanged grins, trying to muffle their laughter.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" said Harry.

"Couldn't sleep," said Ginny in an offhand voice. "I thought I might go for a wander — stop by the kitchens or something."

"Nightmares again?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "Nothing like that."

As she said it, she realized it was true. They weren't nightmares in the sense that they made her heartbeat faster or overwhelmed her with fear when she woke. They really were just startling dreams, ones she always jerked awake from for some reason.

Trelawney would have called them omens of some sort. Portents of doom and death or whatever gloomy prediction she had up her sleeve. In her third-year, Ginny had been scared stiff of Trelawney's dire warnings, until Percy eventually put her to rights by brewing her a month's long batch of potions for dreamless sleep.

"Peeves might catch you, you know," said Harry. "Or worse, Filch."

"Are you really warning me against rule-breaking, Potter?"

"Nah, just wondering if you can keep up."

Ginny rolled her eyes, but she felt her mood lifting all the same. "Inviting yourself along now, are you?"

"If you want," said Harry, looking slightly sheepish despite his teasing tone. "I can go with you, if you'd like."

He sounded so earnest that she had to look away, tapping her chin with her finger as she pretended to think it over.

"Oh, I suppose I could do worse," she said, with a deep, resigned sigh. Harry gave her a withering look, but the effect was ruined by his crooked smile.

They tiptoed out of the common room and made their way down the shadowy hallways. As their footsteps echoed in the silence, Ginny allowed herself to forget. That strange, confusing dream that followed her almost every night since . . . she wasn't sure, really, when she started having them. It was as if they had always been there, waiting — the corridor and the door and the secret on the other side.


End file.
